


Opposites

by EtcheStone



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtcheStone/pseuds/EtcheStone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are small. He is enormous. You are loud. He is silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opposites

You are small. He is enormous. 

Well, small is a little of an understatement. You’re over six feet when stretched up, but the awkward gait that your pegleg gives you and the weight of the tire you carry on your back makes you hunch.

It’s not an understatement to call him enormous, though. Easy seven feet, a wall of muscle and fat. Impassive rubber mask with the blank circles of eyes and fingers as thick as sausages, hand big enough to smother you without even trying. 

(He has covered your face on many an occasion. Your teeth have no affect on his hand whatsoever.)

You are skinny and sinewy, made of sticks, while he is large and round, made of boulders.

You are loud. He is silent. 

You were the one born in the wasteland. The dry, sun-baked wasteland that was irradiated past saving. The rain that stung and killed when it fell, melted flesh off of bones and left you with scars the one time you were unlucky enough to not find shelter quick enough. You were born in scrap yards and dusty gravel roads, fighting the moment you could walk for what was yours and being kicked into the dirt the many times you couldn’t. 

He was born before the disaster struck, born early enough to try and fight against it’s coming for generations like yours. (t’s not that you blame him that it happened anyway, but you’re still bitter. He’s bitter. You’re bitter together, but not towards each other. You think.) He was born with family and children and farms, greenery that grew from the ground and rain that was cold or warm and never stung and killed. Sunlight that didn’t burn and send people mad. Earth that didn’t crumble beneath feet to swallow one up, earth that brought forwards life and took it equally. 

You are constantly in a state of volume. Giggling, snickering, tapping your foot, scraping your metal fingers against each other, the tap of your pegleg against the ground as you hobble about. Shrieking in anger and joy, babbling on to him while he says nothing in return, only lets you speak. You even speak in your sleep as you toss and turn in your bed, haunted by nightmares and phantom pains where your limbs had been before one had been blown off and the other had been devoured. Gargling, snorting, gnashing your teeth, you are always speaking.

He is in a constant state of silence. He himself barely speaks past grunts and rumbles, the pig like snorts that you tease him about. His heavy gait and the tinkle of his chain and hook are the only noises he makes constantly. That and the heavy breathing of his asthmatic breath. 

Your voice is high. Bubbly, giggling, drawling in accent. His is deep, a rumbling rasp like rocks grinding against each other. 

You are fire and explosions. Burning bodies and the rot of death. Metal that glints in the sunlight and golden teeth, singed hair and peeling sunburns. Chiming car alarms and pupils dilated as you stare directly at the sun. Constantly snapping in your ears to make sure you don’t go deaf. 

He is brooding and heavy metal. Knuckledusters and the squeak of rubber. Heavy steel toed boots and coughing breath, wheezing laughter. Calm airs and cold shoulders, glares you feel through the barrier of his mask. Tusked teeth and gray stubble, scarred face and flared nose. Constantly ruffling your hair, rumbling your praise and dragging you from harm by the straps of your harness.

But he shares your RIP-Tire on his shoulder. He lets you paint his nails the same black you painted yours. (after painting it in streaks of war paint across your face first. Stuff took days for you to scrub off.) He makes you bathe when you’ve gone long enough without to start smelling like moldy cheese and every movement makes dead skin and dust peel from you. 

With you he shares the pins and patches he’d put on his harness. He shares touches to the shoulder and beds that he never kicks you out of even when you wake up shrieking and clawing at his bulk, trying your damndest to squirm from his heavy hands. He let you keep the crown jewels of france, called you King Jamison Fawkes the First for the month after you’d stolen them together. (Still have them, buried at the bottom of your bag somewhere.) 

You cannot count the amount of times he’s had to drag your sorry battered hide to safety from a fight, out of the sun or rain, had to carry you over his shoulder or in the crook of your arm when you were too exhausted to walk any longer or when you had lost your leg. 

Neither can you count the amount of times you’ve rushed to fetch the canisters for his mask once he’s had an asthma attack, or kept him warm on cold nights with your constant jittering. He’s told you at least once he wouldn’t know what he would’ve done without your constant chatter in the desert remains of Australia. He doesn’t know what he would have done without company, without words, without laughter. 

You are small. He is enormous. He is the wall you hide behind. You are the screaming fit of rage that pounces on anything and everything that looks at him wrong. You are the rat squirming in your nest, squealing furiously, gnashing your teeth and lashing your teeth. While he is the hog rooting patiently about in roots of bushes, sharpening his tusks with a lazy air, but always alert with his beady brown eyes. 

You are his rat. He is your hog.

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration hit me hard for this but only lasted a few minutes


End file.
